


Wednesday Morning

by Temaris



Series: Coming Apart [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Fantasising in the shower, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2016, PWP, Pre-Slash, mmom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack, and all the things he thinks he can't have.</p><p>(I turned this into a series, and I apologise for the terrible pun. It's a character flaw ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday Morning

Jack has a routine. Bitty always sleeps through his alarm -- he has been known to reach out, swipe to turn the alarm off, and then just slide deeper into sleep with no sign that the alarm had in any way registered. After the first few frustrating mornings he took to tapping on the kid's door, and when sounds of movement started, calling the kid's name. It works pretty well as a system, and it doesn't really occur to him until sometime after Thanksgiving (Canadian, not American) that somehow Bitty managed without the personal wakeup call when he was living in dorms.

He ponders that for a while, but in the end, he doesn't mind it. He kind of likes sitting waiting in the kitchen, sipping his coffee and snacking on a protein bar while Bitty gets himself up and dressed. He likes handing him his coffee, and he likes the walk over to Faber, just the two of them awake in the world. The leaves have turned and they shuffle through the heaps like small children, careless of the hard work of others in sweeping them up, enjoying the way the wind snatches at the leaves and pinches red into their faces. Bitty walks with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, a coat over a hoodie over a long sleeved shirt that Jack knows is a decent base layer this year, and not a long sleeved cotton shirt.

Bitty isn't embarrassed any more, he thinks. He was. He knew he was. He could feel the embarrassment and shame when he'd blurted out that the coaches were cutting him from the line, that he was going to get cut from the team. The concussion hadn't been Bitty's fault; Jack had half expected this and felt a proprietary interest in getting the kid back on his line.

 _Nothing more than that, Mr Zimmermann_ , he mocks himself gently, in the privacy of his own thoughts. Bitty is talking about Thanksgiving -- American, not Canadian -- and Jack half smiles. It'll be a pleasant enough weekend in Montreal, or he could stay in Samwell. It's his last year with. Last year at Samwell, and he doesn't want to miss a thing.

He unlocks the door into Faber, flips the lights, each little click followed by a soft dull boom, as much seen as heard, as the lights come on one by one. The rink is freezing -- the thirty foot high windows are beautiful but the place is impossible to heat. In the summer, it's almost as hard to keep cool, only on the ice itself does he really feel normal. Everywhere else is too much.

Checking practice is getting easier. Bitty's getting better, but he knows that if this isn't to happen all over again (when he won't be here, and Bitty will get hurt, and then he'll get cut and lose his scholarship and have to go back to Georgia and Jack takes a deep breath in two three four, hold two three four out two three four five six seven in two three four on pure autopilot, stems the anxiety spiral. He's in Faber. It's November before he graduates. Bitty's right next to him, starting to look worried, and he closes his eyes at that thought, that Bitty might care (for a team mate). The ice is pristine. His laces are tight. His jacket is warm and his hands are cold. He's here. It's now.)

One day Bitty's going to have to talk out why checking freaks him out so badly, but not today. Not to Jack.

"Y'all okay over there," Bitty says, a little cautiously and Jack nods. "Started thinking about graduation--"

Bitty grimaces sympathetically. "I hate the thought of all y'all going," he confesses. "You and Shitty. It isn't gonna be the same without you."

"Not that it's getting you out of checking practice," he teases and Bitty groans in mock pain (he hopes it's mock).

"You have no heart, Mr Zimmermann," Bitty chirps, and hauls himself up, stomping on his blades down to the ice.

"Nope," Jack says back, cheerfully following him on to the ice. There's nothing quite like the sound as the metal presses in, the ice compressing under their blades. They leave long stripes as they lap the rink. Bitty turns to go backwards, and Jack follows, he tries a Salchow and Jack snorts.

"Not going to have a go?" he asks, and Jack just laughs.

"Not what we're here for."

It's not, and they slow down, practice Bitty ducking out from checks, sliding under arms to get away from the boards. And yes, slamming into the boards, jammed between Jack and the boards, breathing hard.

"You okay?" he asks, and Bitty nods.

"Just -- getting there," he says, and lifts his head after a long moment to offer Jack a small smile. "I hate this so much. Come on. Again."

Jack offers him a half smile back, not even really realising that he has, and Bitty's small smile widens into a beam, his eyes crinkling up happily.

He's proud of him, he realises with a distant sense of shock. He's put some real effort into not thinking about the revelatory moments of Bitty's injury last season (he'd panicked for a team mate. That was all. He hates when he doesn't believe the lies he tells himself).

He's proud of Bitty, and he has no fucking right.

Except as his captain.

Except as his volunteer trainer.

Except as his friend.

He glances up at the clock. It's just shy of six, and he needs to get breakfast before his 9am lecture. Three hours isn't much time, he tells himself, as he tells himself every morning. Especially not when he has a routine.

"Doing good, Bittle," is all he says, and Bitty grins at him, breathing hard after the last chase and check.

"It's getting easier," Bitty says and Jack nods.

"You've gotta keep this up, and you'll be fine."

"What if they don't put me back on the line?" Bitty whispers, and Jack's pretty sure that he wasn't meant to hear it, but he grips Bitty's shoulder anyway as they exit the ice.

"I'll have a word with the coaches," he says, and feels rather than sees Bitty's shoulders loosen. "I can't promise --"

"No, I know. I do. But," Bitty turns and meets his eyes squarely. "Thank you."

He makes a gesture to encompass both the offer and the practice, and "For all of it. You didn't have to--"

"I did," Jack says, and then can't think how to explain himself. He falls back on a very old standby: ducks his head, and hurries off to the showers. "Showers—" he says, "I'll uh – later?" he calls back and glances over his shoulder. 

Bitty waves at him apparently unfazed by Jack's weirdness. "See you later," he replies, and drops on a bench and starts unlacing. Of course he does, Jack mocks himself. There's a routine here too: he grabs a shower here, Bitty heads back to the Haus, and they won't speak again until eleven.

Jack grabs his bag and heads for the showers.

They are cold. Not for the first time he regrets the idea of doing this here. But it is quiet and private and above all: safe. No chance of Shitty appearing in a state of partial undress, unfazed by Jack being midway through some personal time. Not Haus ghosts, if that's what that damn chilly feeling is crawling down his neck as he strokes himself off. Just him and his thoughts, which aren't always the best of company, but since some months ago (he could put a precise date on it, but he's going to let that go) (he is) it's been ... better.

Bitty is so strong, he thinks, stripping off. The shower runs cold at first, and he sort of wishes that he could bring himself to use the shower cold, but Crisse, it's too fucking cold to even consider. He'd just give himself hypothermia, and more to the point, waste the entire reason for coming over here.

He's half hard already, just from being in proximity to Bitty all morning. He smelled amazing as always. He can't quite decide what bits are just Bitty and what bits are his body wash or shampoo or whatever it is he puts in his hair to make it do that cute floppy thing. Whatever it is, he has moments when he wishes he could bottle it and keep it.

He might be smaller than Jack, but he's solid with muscle, those thighs that push him so fast across the ice -- he sighs a little and starts stroking himself with intent. Bitty's thighs could probably trap a man between them. He can't help the small smile at the thought of being caught there, held firmly in place. And crisse, Bitty's hands – he doesn't dare watch him making pastry any more. All he can see are those strong fingers squeezing and kneading, the strength in his wrists and shoulders put to touching Jack... 

He shudders, that grip on his dick would be – he swallows.

He wants that. Wants to be held and kept, wants to relax into someone else's strength. He wants to be on his knees for him. He could be on his knees for Bitty, just feel those soft hands petting him, feeding him his dick, letting him suck, and at first it would be all gentle hands and that warm Southern drawl, and then he'd tighten down, hold Jack in place, and Jack would just -- he slides a couple of fingers into his mouth, but it's not the same and they taste of soap. It doesn't stop him – he'd just suck harder, relish being held securely, Bitty's legs keeping him shut away from the world, his ears covered, his nose thick with the smell of cock, his mouth full of the taste of his come. He'd close his eyes, and be lost, surrounded. (His eyes are closed, and the shower is running hard and hot, and he's done so quickly, it hardly seems fair).

He finishes up, scrubs himself down swiftly, sluices water over the tiles to clean up his mess. Towels off. Tries not to think about Bitty. getting out from under his father's expectations, getting out and making his own life, in Samwell, small and steadfast. He wants to have that strength too.

He gets dressed and smiles faintly at his shattered reflection. None of it is real. Not for him. It's someone else's dream, locked away in warm darkness. Not his. He isn't going to change. There isn't going to be a one day. He can't hope like that. It might kill him. Again.


End file.
